


You Know What They Say About Men With Big Feet..?

by josiemoon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Notting Hill Fusion, Background Mystrade, Dubious Consent, Eventual Smut, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John owns a bookshop, M/M, Sherlock is Famous
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-04 23:23:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12178509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josiemoon/pseuds/josiemoon
Summary: Notting Hill AU - because I couldn't resist.John Watson's life changes forever when Oscar winning actor Sherlock Holmes walks into his failing bookshop.Find me on tumblr: ohyoubarstard





	1. Meet Cute

**Author's Note:**

> Don't own any of the characters and the plot line and some of the quotes are from Notting Hill.

It was a bright afternoon in May and, as usual, the old second hand bookshop on the corner of Baker Street wasn’t seeing a lot of foot traffic. John Watson sighed as he looked down at his ancient laptop, frowning at the red numbers that appeared on his accounts from last month’s sales figures. Something drastic would have to happen for the shop to remain open. He was barely hanging on, it was losing him money daily and the rent on his flat was becoming increasingly difficult to keep up with. There was only so long his endlessly patient and frankly doting landlady would put up with his promises of “I should have the money next week” and “can I pay you in instalments?” The bookshop had been there so long it practically faded into the background of the street, a mere blur to tourists as they bustled past on their way to Madam Tussaud’s. The peeling paint on the front of the shop left something to be desired next to the glossy fronted boutiques and modern looking wine bars that had sprang up over the years next door. 

The bookshop had been opened by Joseph Watson nearly thirty years ago and in the days where televisions were rare and books were only available on paper, business had been doing well. Now with kids and adults alike glued to smart phones and the easy convenience of e-readers it had become a different story. After Joseph’s death three years ago, the shop had been passed down to his children. Harriet (“eurgh, don’t you dare call me Harriet”), although the eldest of twins by eight minutes was a feisty spirit and shrugged off all responsibility by saying she preferred to watch films instead of read books anyway. Ownership and management had therefore fallen to John. John had always loved books. Reading had been his one solace in the army, reading whatever it was he could get his hands on: old medical papers, yellowing letters from his comrades’ loved ones pinned to the walls of their dugouts, he had even read the bible several times from cover to cover despite not being the slightest bit religious. Those rare times he had stumbled across a proper book and had time in between emergency surgeries and dodging bullets, he savoured the time he spent reading- it allowed him to escape the screams and explosions that made up the orchestra of his daily life. He had jumped (not literally, his leg would not have allowed him to do so even if he had wanted to) at the chance to run the family bookshop when he had returned from war. 

It was getting close to five o’clock, he had already sent his only employee home as it seemed pointless to have more staff in the shop than they had had customers, and he was thinking about shutting up for the day when the bell tinkled and the door flung open. A tall man in a well-tailored crisp white shirt and black jeans walked in, texting on his mobile. His eyes were obscured by a pair of aviator Raybans but his high cheekbones and plump lips made the man instantly recognisable, even to John who had never been much into films. John cleared his throat.

“Can I help at all?” John asked, trying to sound casual although inside his chest his heart was thumping rapidly.

“No thank you” the man said, still not taking his eyes off his mobile, but walking round the back of a bookshelf to browse. 

Thinking he must be mistaken, that no way did an Oscar winning, millionaire, Hollywood superstar just walk into his tatty bookshop, John opened a new tab on his internet browser and searched “Sherlock Holmes”. He tapped his fingers nervously on the counter as hundreds of internet articles loaded in front of his eyes. Clicking on the first link, which happened to be People Magazine 100 Sexiest Men Alive, he scrolled down until he found what he was seeking. Right down at Number 4 there was a brief description and, underneath, a photo that depicted a man laying down on a bed, his arms folded behind his head, inky black curls fanned out on the pillow, a cupid’s bow that looked like it had been sculpted by God himself. John gulped; he was indistinguishable from the man who had just walked into his shop. 

“Excuse me”

John almost fell off his seat. Quickly shutting down the webpage he looked up to see Sherlock Holmes standing directly in front of the counter. He had removed his sunglasses and John noticed that his eyes, although they looked grey onscreen, appeared a lot softer and greener in real life.

“Hello” John said feigning confidence, trying to take attention away from the heat he could feel reddening his ears “anything I can do for you?”

“I was hoping you may be able to recommend something to me, I am interested in doing a bit of background reading on the Cold War. Do you have anything that would be suitable?” 

God, his voice sounded even more sinful in real life than it did on the big screen. 

John smiled, picked up his walking stick that had been resting against the wall and hobbled over to the history section. He stood in front of the shelf for a moment, pondering the choices before picking out two volumes that might be of interest. He could feel Sherlock eyes following him across the room, his gaze felt like a red hot laser on his back.

“John Lewis Gaddis provides a good introduction into the Cold War if you are new to this period of history, or Odd Arne Westard also gives a more global perspective if you want a bit of the wider picture” He walked back over to the counter carrying the books against his chest so as not to drop them. It had become a bit tricky to carry things when he had concentrate on holding a walking stick at the same time. 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked nonchalantly. 

John froze comically with his arm in mid-air, holding out the books to Sherlock, his weight resting on his stick. After a moment of still stunned silence, Sherlock reached out and plucked the books from John's still floating hand and flicked through them both causally. 

“Yes these look perfect, just what I was looking for. I’ll take both of them please.” He took out his wallet and fished out a fifty pound note, placing it on the counter even though the books in combination only came to less than twenty. 

“Well, I might see you around then…” his eyes flickered briefly down to the name on John’s lanyard, a naughty grin playing around his mouth “John”. 

He gave John a small nod, turned on his heel and walked out of the shop before John had even thought to put his arm back down.


	2. Surreal but Nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John bumps into Sherlock. Literally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There seems to be no rhyme or reason to when I can get these posted. So here we go, chapter two. Hope you enjoy.

John turned into Speedy’s café, the shop directly underneath his flat, as usual on his way home. It had become a bit of a habit since he had started a flirtation with the pretty blonde girl behind the counter. She had a sweet smile and big brown eyes and always gave John a free muffin with his coffee. Today, with his mind still lingering on the man with the inky black curls and the wicked glint in his eye, he barely paid the girl a moment’s attention, and didn’t even notice that she hadn’t offered him any free pastries. He was paying so little attention to his surroundings that on the way out of the shop he collided with something solid. His walking stick and coffee both slipped out of his hands. It was like the world had turned slow motion, he saw the stick clattering to the floor and the boiling contents of his cup fly out and land directly on the shirt of the man he had just walked into.

“Oh god, I am so sorry” he said, looking up at the unfortunate soul who had just been scalded by his coffee. John gaped. Sherlock Holmes was stood in front of him, his once crisp white shirt now stained with dark brown liquid and his face scowling. John swore under his breath, just his bloody luck.

“I am so sorry” John repeated, following Sherlock as he backed out the shop onto the street. “I live literally just up there” He said pointing to the windows of the flat above the coffee shop. “I’m sure I have a spare shirt or something that you can have”.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him and said “I have a photo shoot tomorrow. I was hoping not to have third degree burns on my chest, doesn’t make for the most attractive image, but since you were a doctor when you were in… Iraq? Afghanistan? Still not sure. Perhaps you could take a look and we might be able to avoid any permanent damage.”

“How could you possibly know that I was a doctor?” John exclaimed, bewildered. 

“Come on now John, we haven’t got time for your inane questions. Your frankly awful taste in coffee has offended me enough, who drinks an espresso at this time of day?” Sherlock replied, brushing John aside “I guess I should be grateful it was only a small cup”.

John looked guiltily down at Sherlock’s sodden and stained shirt and fumbled in his pocket for his keys to open the front door directly next to Speedy’s. He pushed it open with his good shoulder and heard Sherlock follow and close the door behind them. John climbed the stairs up to his flat, praying that his flatmate wasn’t in. He could see her now in his head, tilting her head back and roaring with laughter at his bad luck, how only he could manage to scald an A-list celebratory and ruin a shirt that probably cost more than he earnt in a month.  
But it wasn’t just that, he was having a hard time believing this was real, he couldn’t bare his flatmate to be there and ruin the fantasy and bring him back down to earth by telling him this was all a dream. Didn’t want her reminding him that film stars didn’t go back to the houses of penniless nobodies like John. 

To his relief, Clara was not home, John could tell the second he opened the door into his flat that she wasn’t. The flat held that unmistakably quiet and still feeling of being deserted. John glanced around the flat, thankful that he had done his breakfast washing up this morning, a stupid thing to be thankful for because he always kept the flat military neat, never left a bowl or mug unwashed and sitting on the side. Even the cardboard boxes that took up the majority of the floor room, stuffed with second hand books that had overflowed from his shop, were all labelled and neatly stacked. Clara, however, had left a scattering of magazines, her mp3 player and a bottle of nail polish on the coffee table – the only signs that this flat was lived in and was not a storage room masquerading as a living room. 

“I’m not sure red is your colour John” Sherlock muttered, his eyes lingering on the nail varnish on the coffee table. 

“Oh that, that’s my roommate’s.” 

“Roommate?” John thought he had heard a note of interest in his voice “Not girlfriend?”

John shook his head, thinking he must have imagined it and busied himself with taking his jacket off so he had an excuse to turn his back and hide the red that was surely flushing his cheeks.

“If you’ll just hang on” John began, changing the subject and heading down the hallway towards his bedroom “I think I’ve got a jumper that might fit you…” Last Christmas, Clara had bought John a thin-knit black jumper with a deep-v neckline that lent itself to more to fashion rather than practicality and was too long in the sleeve for him anyway. John always preferred his jumpers to be thick, warm and comfortable and frankly he felt a bit out of shape to have something so snug and tight fitting as the jumper Clara had bought him over his now soft stomach. He took the black jumper out of his wardrobe and took it back into the living room to find Sherlock sat on the sofa, his shirt unbuttoned almost to the waist and rubbing a sore red mark on his chest. 

John coughed lightly as he walked in to make his presence known and put the jumper down on the sofa next to Sherlock. 

“May I?” he asked kneeling on the floor in front of the sofa where Sherlock was perched. Sherlock looked down into his face and nodded, putting his hand down from his chest to rest against his thigh. John lightly ran his fingers over the mark, ignoring the warmth that was gathering in his belly at the feeling of Sherlock’s smooth chest under his feather light touch and looked more closely at the scald. 

“Well I don’t think it’s going to blister, it would have started to by now if it was going to.” John said quietly “I do think you should probably cool it down under some cold water for a while. Perhaps you should go and have a cold shower” 

“Cold shower might be beneficial” Sherlock said, his voice rich with insinuation and John actually shivered. Sherlock shrugged his ruined shirt off his shoulders, picked up the jumper from beside him on the sofa and headed down the hallway. His hips almost had a wiggle when he walked. The man was a like a scientist in seduction. 

John got up off the floor and sat back on the sofa in time to see Sherlock’s slim shoulders, his narrow hips and his lightly muscular back round the corner into the bathroom. Groaning loudly, John leaned back into the cushions pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. This was utter madness he kept telling himself, madness. John knew he was attracted to men, he’d been attracted to men before, but not like this. This was, God, this was on a whole other level. He’d never actually acted on his attraction to men, not for any notion of self-doubt or angst in his sexuality, it’s just that he hadn’t had the chance. He’d married his childhood sweetheart, a heart shape faced girl called Mary. He had been young and new to love and she had made his heart flutter and his palms sweat. He’d joined the army not long after they had married and he’d come home broken, damaged and short tempered and she had strayed. Blaming it on his anger and his limp and saying that she just didn’t find him attractive anymore. That was little over a year ago and though he had flirted with girls since (the girl with the big brown eyes and the free muffins popped into his mind suddenly) he knew that had always been a bit of fun, the bar of the coffee shop a nice barrier to anything actually happening with her. He had let himself go a bit, it was pretty hard to exercise when you had a dodgy shoulder and a leg that just wouldn’t behave. He felt the pain from his divorce all too keenly. He couldn’t face getting his heart ripped out his chest again, couldn’t face baring his ugly and scarred body to a stranger only to have them push him away in disgust, in repulsion. 

It was a ridiculous notion anyway. There was no way the man that had graced the pages of Vogue with the body of a Greek God, the man that had appeared on red carpets with an array of beautiful women hanging off his arm and his every word would ever be interested in John, broken rounded short plain-featured greying John. He laughed out loud at the thought and pulled himself onto his feet to set about making a cup of tea. Shaking himself into doing something that resembled normality. A nice cup of tea had always done a good job of soothing him. The bathroom door opened as John was taking the first few sips of tea and out stepped Sherlock, John’s thin knit black jumper fitting like a second skin on his lean body. 

“I best be off… my manager has already sent me seventeen text messages demanding to know where I am” Sherlock said, his black curls, now wet, were plastered against his head. It made him look younger somehow. 

“I’ll walk you out. The front door can be a bit stiff and difficult to open sometimes” John put down his cup of tea. He heard the words leave his mouth before he had a chance to regulate them. “It was nice to meet you. Surreal… but nice.” John groaned inwardly at the stupidity and cheesiness of what he had just said. He saw Sherlock’s lips quirk up in a small smirk. 

They walked out the flat and down the stairs in silence. Just as John reached out to open the front door, he hesitated for a second, turning to face Sherlock. 

“Well, I-” John’s sentence was cut off. Sherlock had leaned forward and briefly pressed his lips against John’s. It was so chaste and so gentle that John could have imagined it. 

“I’m sorry for that surreal but nice comment” John croaked when Sherlock pulled away, his voice sounded hoarse. 

“Thanks for the jumper and the shower” Sherlock said, opening the front door and stepping out onto the street. He had walked about three steps down the road when he turned to look at John over his shoulder. “It’s a good job you saw me out, you’ll be needing to pick up your walking stick. You left it on the floor of the coffee shop.” 

He gave John a small wink and carried on down the road leaving John to curse the cruel God who had imprinted in his memory the feeling of a smooth and muscular chest under his fingertips only to make him stand there and watch the man walk away from him and out of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three is well on the way! Any feedback/ constructive criticism is always appreciated particularly as this is my first work.


	3. Internal Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock struggles with his emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't resist doing a little homage to Benedict's Vanity Fair cover shoot in which he looks, as usual, absolutely flawless. Can't get enough of those red pants!! Red pants most likely will make another cameo in later chapters......

The sound of his mobile ringing woke Sherlock up. He rolled over, his eyes adjusting to the morning light streaming in through the curtains he forgot to draw last night. He reached out for it but his mobile rang off. He looked down at his bare chest, the angry looking red mark from yesterday had faded but was still visible. This would mean longer in the make-up chair this morning before his photoshoot trying to disguise it.

He, however, was currently too distracted with a more pressing problem to give the make-up chair much more thought. The ache between his legs that he had felt as soon as he woke up was making him feel uncomfortable and was becoming hard to ignore. Interesting, he had had morning wood before, he was an adult male after all, but this felt different. This didn’t feel like it normally did, this was persistent and unrelenting, made him feel like he desperately needed to touch himself. He had tried to avoid physical intimacy in a long time both on his own and with others, and on those occasions when he had had no choice but to relieve himself it had been perfunctory and over as quickly as he could manage. He felt a bit reluctant about opening that Pandora’s box again, he’d been so careful for nearly ten years to not to let his body rule his head. He felt pathetic thinking about what had caused it. Was he a teenage boy again? A tiny peck on the mouth yesterday, his dreams turning it into something more and now he was as hard as a rock. Was that all it took to make him this pathetically aroused? So juvenile, he despised himself for it. In his dream he hadn’t pulled away, in his dream he had thrown John against the wall, torn open his jeans and ravaged him until his legs were buckling from shaking too much. Reminding himself of his dream wasn’t helping. Groaning, he thought this was unlikely to go away unless he did something about it.

His phone rang again. Picking it up he saw that it was Mycroft calling. Well, at least that solved his problem. A phone call from his brother was an immediate anaphrodisiac, the equivalent to taking a freezing cold shower.

“For god’s sake Mycroft, what do you want?” Sherlock growled down the phone “I haven’t even had a chance to read the seventeen, oh no it’s probably nearer nineteen now, text messages you sent me yesterday”.

“Twenty one actually. Are you still in your hotel room?” Mycroft asked casually.

“Please, like you don’t have the hotel staff alerting you every time I walk in and out of the suite.”

“As your manager Sherlock, you are paying me to worry about you and let me tell you, worried I am” His voice was rich with concern. To anyone else it might have sounded genuine.

“It seems like a cause for concern when I have to pay my brother to care about my welfare” Sherlock retorted.

“Well no time for all these pleasantries. Who is he?” Mycroft said business-like. 

Sherlock feigned ignorance. “I’m sorry but the population is made up of approximately 48% males. You’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”

“Don’t play stupid. Why did you spent approximately 36 minutes at an address in Baker Street yesterday in the company of one” Sherlock heard Mycroft flick over a page “Doctor John Watson?”

Sherlock held his silence, he wasn’t going to offer any information freely to his brother. His mind unhelpfully supplied the memory of the feeling of John’s dry lips against his. John’s mouth had been slightly open in midsentence; he hadn’t been expecting the kiss and Sherlock had caught him off-guard. He was sure John was just about to kiss back but hadn’t had the chance; Sherlock had pulled away too quickly. The memory of it made the hair on the back of his neck rise up. Another alarming reaction, he didn’t know what it was about the man that had inspired such an out of character response from him.

“Oh, Sherlock. You didn’t” He didn’t have to tell Mycroft. Mycroft always knew. “We are going to have to do some damage control here, Sherlock. We have worked so hard to build up your public persona. Worked so hard to repair the mess you created last time you got involved with someone. You know how lucky you are that your career even managed to take off after what happened.” 

Something about this struck a chord with Sherlock. The only thing that mattered to him for so long was the work, it had helped him overcome the dangerous entanglements he had got involved in in his youth. The work was his salvation, the only thing that didn’t bore him. He couldn’t lose it, couldn’t afford to let his mind be distracted by the traps of romance and attraction.

“What would you have me do?” Sherlock whispered down the phone.

“Call him, invite him over to the hotel today after your photoshoot and ask him in your own persuasive way not to speak a word of what happened yesterday” Mycroft replied.

“I’m surprised you haven’t already picked him up and tried to bribe him into silence.” The silence on the end of the line caught Sherlock by surprise. “Ooh. You already did do that, didn’t you?” He thought about it for a moment. “What happened?”

“I offered him a very persuasive sum of money in the hope that he might keep quiet about your… indiscretions.”

“What did he say?” Sherlock asked, expecting the answer. After all Mycroft wouldn’t be asking him to speak to John if he had been successful in his endeavour.

“He told me to piss off.”

Sherlock snorted, and then added “He refused your money… that’s interesting. He’s broke, as I’m sure you know.”

“I do know” Mycroft replied. “I’ve done a full background check on him. £37.31 in his bank account currently, shares a flat with one Clara Campbell”. He paused, then added “Girlfriend?”

“Roommate” Sherlock had heard the accusation in Mycroft’s voice and rebutted with defiance. He was so confused about why he had jumped to his defence. What did it matter if John had a girlfriend? Nothing to do with him, he didn’t care.

“Ah yes, two bedroom flat, makes sense. The fact that he refused my money concerns me. I suspect that he could be biding his time, waiting for the opportune moment to sell his story and make the biggest bang, so to speak. Sherlock, you know you can’t just go to a stranger’s house and within 30 minutes have your tongue down their throat.” Mycroft reprimanded. 

“You are overreacting Mycroft, I don’t know what story you think he has to sell. I pecked the man on the lips. It’s not like I had a drug fuelled gay orgy with him at his flat” Sherlock said stubbornly.

“Yes well given your history let us be grateful for that at least” Mycroft sneered.

“Below the belt Mycroft” Sherlock snarled back, jaw clenched.

“You’re the one that said it brother mine. We can’t be too careful, your career probably wouldn’t survive another hit. You know as well as I do how stupid it was going into the man’s house and thirty minutes later walking out wearing different clothes. Baker Street is a busy road. There are cameras these days in every pocket. People will talk.” 

“People do little else. But fine, point made. I’ll invite him over after the photoshoot and try to dissuade him from speaking about my _indiscretions_.”

He hung up the phone and threw it onto the bed next to him, burying his head into his pillow to try and forget the feeling of John’s mouth against his.

***

They made Sherlock stand against a cold wall in a blue t-shirt and jeans, apparently to make him look more approachable. He never wore t-shirts except to go to bed in, which he did only when there was no one around to see him, when he could lounge around his New York apartment and be himself without anyone else to comment. He felt a bit uncomfortable with the flashes going off in his face; one of his hands was practically pulling down his trousers, leaving a small section of his belly and the top of the ridiculous red pants they had laid out for him visible over the top of his jeans. He felt like a complete idiot – what adult man wore red underpants anyway? Did people actually find this sexy? No doubt they would airbrush him completely out of recognition as well. The photoshoot was easy though, he could do this nonsense in his sleep, knew how to focus his eyes so that they made the viewer feel like his was directly staring into theirs, knew how to position his arm behind his head to make his lean arms look more muscular to make himself appeal to society’s ridiculous notions of beauty and manliness. 

There had been some problem getting the light right (was everyone in the immediate vicinity an idiot?) and as such they were running an hour behind. This was tedious; his mind was racing trying to keep him entertained, trying to deduce what he could about those around the set in between shots. Make up artist, been in the business seven years, massive debt due to her gambling addiction, her agitation and her nails which were bitten down to the quick were the giveaway, the fly in the ointment to her otherwise pristine appearance. Dull. He looked over at the creative director, fifty-three years old, terrible job at masking his grey hair with a frankly alarming shade of bright blonde- not possible for that colour to be natural, not married but happily cohabiting for the last two decades. Dull. Dull. 

Then, out the corner of his eye, he saw him standing by the door. His hands were clasped behind his back and he was rocking back on his heels, no sign of his walking stick. John. He looked so out of place that Sherlock couldn’t help but feel a rush of affection for this man, a feeling quite alien to him. 

“Alright Sherlock, I think we’re just about done here, you’ve got ten minutes and then we need you back for a short interview with the magazine.”

What was wrong with him? He’d always prided himself on his ability to keep his emotions under control, not to fall pray to the cancer that struck down everyone in its path. Sentiment, he told himself, was a chemical defect found on the losing side. But there was something about this man, this otherwise ordinary man, that made him want to impale himself on his sword, to snatch the apple off the forbidden tree and bite into its juicy flesh. He mentally slapped himself for being so ridiculous, for succumbing to the mundaneness of everyday life. This man could be the destruction of his career, he just couldn’t let that happen. He walked over to John, trying to act lofty and distant. 

“Ah Doctor Watson, I appreciate you coming over at such short notice.” He heard the coldness in his voice.

“Thanks for inviting me” John replied bluntly.

He heard anger there, could see it bubbling under the surface on John’s face.

“They are using one of the smaller conference rooms next door as my dressing room. Perhaps we should talk in there.” 

The door to Sherlock’s dressing room had barely swung closed behind them when John exploded.

“What the hell is going on here Sherlock?” The impact of his voice made Sherlock take an involuntary step backwards “YOU come to my bookshop and recount my life story to me out of nowhere. YOU demanded that I look at your chest. YOU practically did a strip tease in front of me and walked around my flat half naked. YOU _kissed_ me and then I get kidnapped this morning and treated as I’m some sort of crazy stalker hell bent on my five minutes of fame. YOU invite me to your bloody photoshoot where I have to stand there and watch you make “come fuck me eyes” into the camera. YOU look at me across the room like I’m the only thing you see and then you come up to me and act as if you hate me.” He said all this in one long rant, barely taking a breath.

“Well I don’t see how you can say I’m sending out mixed signals”. Sherlock said, keeping his face deadpan. 

John ignored his attempt at humour. Sherlock didn’t blame him. Sherlock sighed loudly.

“The man who kidnapped you this morning is my manager, and less importantly my brother, Mycroft. He is extremely, ah, sensitive where I am concerned. I had a rough time when I was in my early twenties and he hasn’t exactly got past that. He was worried that you might be tempted to drag my name into the mud with the press, rehash old rumours about me.” Sherlock explained.

John was glaring at him, clearly insulted. “And what do you think?” he demanded.

“I never hypothesize without all the facts” Sherlock replied.

“Are you busy tonight?” John asked suddenly.

“Yes” Sherlock was caught off guard by John’s question. “’I’m supposed to be attending an industry party later.” 

The door flung open and a woman with a headset and a clipboard walked in.

“Mr Holmes, the journalist is here. We’ve booked off a section of the bar for you to speak to him and we’re all ready to go.” She glared around impatiently. 

Sherlock stuck out his hand for John to shake. John took it. His hand felt warm and soft in his, Sherlock’s fingers completely enveloped John’s smaller hand. This simple action sparked flames in Sherlock’s stomach remembering the feeling of those gentle hands on his chest. 

He couldn’t stop his heart seeping out and infecting his brain. He had worked so hard to pretend he didn’t have one; it was all coming as quite a shock to him. 

“Well it was nice to see you John. Surreal… but nice.” 

The headsetted woman looked pointedly down at her watch and waved at Sherlock to follow her as she walked out the room. 

Something clicked in Sherlock’s chest. Fuck Mycroft and what he wanted.

Sherlock, still clasping John’s hand pulled him closer to him. His mouth brushed against John’s ear and he felt John shiver as he whispered into it. “You know… I’ve always found industry parties extremely tedious. I could be persuaded to reconsider my plans.”

“Oh bugger!” John said, stepping back and removing his hand gently from Sherlock’s. “I forgot it’s my flatmates birthday. One of my friends is hosting a dinner party for her this evening.”

“Well ok, that sounds fine” Sherlock shrugged.

“You want…. You mean you want to come with me?” John asked, surprised.

“Well if you don’t mind. If your friend won’t mind you bringing along a date..?” Sherlock couldn’t believe he was letting the words come out of his mouth. He had spent the whole morning chastising himself for getting distracted from the work, but now everything seemed to come second to getting the man in front of him to beam at him like he was now. Every instinct in his body was telling him this was dangerous, that he could end up regretting this for the rest of his life but then again he had always been addicted to danger.

And god was he in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My chapters seem to be getting longer.. strange.
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


	4. No Comment Means Yes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a glimpse into John's world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feels like it's been ages since I've posted... Work has been crazy busy and I've had hardly any writing time. Due some holiday soon so will try and make some progress!

Tonight Sherlock had a game plan. Throwing himself into the deep end, he was going to prove to himself that he wasn’t cut out for a normal life with a normal relationship and that he would be bored by it. He would go to this dinner with John’s dull friends and he would look back ashamedly at these two days of weakness. Mycroft would sneer and tell him that he had always told Sherlock that this was beneath them.

Or if his gut reaction was right, and it was rarely wrong these days, it would turn his world upside down. He would be so deeply drawn in, so consumed and charmed by John and his dysfunctional, ordinary life that he wouldn’t be able to tear himself away.

Either way, he had to be sure that his instinct was right. Had to be sure that he wasn’t too inherently selfish, that he was capable of thinking about someone else.

\---

“Hello!” A young woman said cheerfully as she opened the door to John. Early 30s, single, with a cat – it had moulted a bit on her cardigan, scientist of some sort but not immediately obvious which specific field. It was clear she wasn’t expecting John to bring someone because her eyes lingered on Sherlock for a while before they widened in recognition. She looked quickly over to John, her face paling in shock.

“Erm… This is Sherlock. I hope you don’t mind me bringing someone Molly” John said, leaning forward to press his cheek to Molly’s, when he pulled away Sherlock saw his tongue darting out to lick his dry bottom lip nervously. 

“Pleasure to meet you Molly” Sherlock smiled at Molly, the kind of shy smile he knew endeared him to a certain type woman. “Thinking woman’s crumpet” was a label that often got thrown around in the press when referring to him, stupid expression that made no sense, but he could tell from the way that Molly had reacted to him on her doorstep that she was one of those women. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, it was a bit disconcerting. To break the ice, he passed her the bottle of wine that John had thrust into his hands before they rang the doorbell. He wasn’t accustomed to all these social niceties, thought them pointless worth of effort, but he found that John was willing to help him, and surprisingly for John he was willing to try. 

Molly showed them through to the dining room, before running off to the kitchen to check on dinner. Three people were sitting around the table, glasses of wine in hand. One of the women could only be John’s sister. She had the same pleasing roundness to her face, the long dead straight hair that she flicked over her shoulder as she laughed was the same shade of dark ash blonde. She was chatting animatedly to a woman across the table, both of them unconsciously leaning towards each other. Sherlock noticed the freshly painted red nails on the dark haired woman across from John’s sister and inferred that this was clearly John’s flatmate, Clara. Sherlock noticed the way the only other person around the table, a silver haired man, frowned slightly when he thought no one was looking at him. Just started divorce proceedings , obvious. The vivid tan line on his ring finger and the empty wine glass in front of him (the girls still had full glasses) made it a dead giveaway. 

He looked up the second that John and Sherlock walked into the room. “John!” he said getting to his feet. John’s sister Harry and Clara both looked round at the sound of Johns’ name.

“This is Sherlock, Sherlock this is Harry, my sister, that’s Clara and Greg” John said pointing everyone out. Sherlock saw Harry exchange a significant look with Clara. Clara immediately jumped up from the table, beaming.

“Happy birthday Clara” Sherlock said remembering John had said it was her birthday and giving her a small smile.

“John come to the kitchen so we can get some more drinks” She said excitedly. Harry grabbed one of John’s arms and dragged him out of the room, Clara following close behind. There was already a cold bottle of white wine on the table, as well as spare glasses, clearly they wanted to give John an interrogation out of earshot. 

Sherlock took a seat at the table with Greg who he nodded awkwardly and used the line that most Brits resorted to when they had nothing to say “So what do you do Sherlock?”

Sherlock smiled to himself, it wasn’t a question he was used to. His face was always on a billboard, a gossip column or on the television. He wasn’t used to people not knowing who he was – it was oddly refreshing.

“I’m an actor.”

Greg perked up a bit, his conversation flowing a bit easier at the revelation. “Oh, good for you. I did a bit of acting in my school days before I joined the force”. Police officer then, senior most likely. Long hours would allow wife opportunity to carry on with an affair without much difficulty. “Have you been in anything I might of heard of? Soap operas, is it? Or are you a west-end type?”

“Films mostly” Sherlock replied.

He could hear Molly, Clara, Harry and John giggling loudly in the kitchen. He suspected they didn’t realise how thin the walls were.

“Oh my god John… How on earth did you pull Sherlock bloody Holmes?” Harry screeched. 

“You lucky bastard, have you shagged him yet?” He heard Clara ask, giggling.

“No comment.”

Sherlock smiled a bit at the good humour in John’s voice. Greg fumbled around pouring himself and Sherlock a glass of wine, the conversation they could overhear clearly making him awkward. He pressed on with his line of questioning to Sherlock doing his best to pretend they couldn’t hear every word from the four in the kitchen.

“Films? Blimey good for you. The pay though, some of my old friends from school been in the business longer than you, they are scraping by on next to nothing. How’s the pay in films? Your last film for example, what did you get paid?’

“Twenty million dollars.”

Greg looked gobsmacked. “That’s erm… that’s pretty good then, isn’t it?” He picked up his glass and gulped down half his wine. 

The laughter from the kitchen drowned out the resulting awkward silence.

“No comment means yes, John Watson!”

“No it doesn’t!”

“Do you masturbate?” He heard Harry groan with disgust when Clara asked the question. 

“Definitely no comment.”

“See, no comment means yes!” 

The four of them came back into the room rosy cheeked with mischievous smiles and carrying plates of food. Even if he hadn’t overheard, their eyes all glancing over at Sherlock made it obvious they had been talking about him.

\---

Despite himself, Sherlock couldn’t help but have a good time. They were all laughing good naturedly at Greg’s misfortunates, Greg had taken it surprisingly well. Sherlock suspected it had a lot to do with the fact that Greg was about a bottle of wine down and had got progressively more giggly as the evening went on, the sadness on his face diminishing with every sip. Harry happily filled Sherlock in stories from John’s youth – much to John’s embarrassment. “His nickname at school was Three-Continents Watson!”

Sherlock raised his eyebrow at this and couldn’t stop a small grin reaching his face “at school? Should I be worried about that?”

John groaned but he was smiling, his cheeks rosy from good wine and good friends. “Sixth form, not school let’s be clear about that. For god’s sake Harry why did you have to bring this up?” Harry was now shaking with laughter, pleased at how she had managed to embarrass her brother. “This makes me sound like some sort of lothario. Pathetic as it sounds, I have only slept with three people in my whole life and they just happened to be from three different continents. One of them was a girl in my class, her family were originally from Japan but she was born in Essex so I’m not entirely sure that counts as another continent. There was an American I met in a club I had gotten into with fake id, she was much older than me, I was drunk and she took me back to her flat. I was so pissed I didn’t know what I was doing. She ate me alive, it was terrifying.” He laughed a bit at the memory. “And then there was… “ he trailed off. 

The light atmosphere suddenly tensed.

And then Sherlock suddenly realised. He was stupid not to have put two and two together from the moment he had arrived at Molly’s house. John had only ever slept with three people. This indicated that either John had been celibate longer than even he had been, or there had been a long term relationship that had broken up in bad circumstances. The latter seemed likely given the awkward silence that followed John’s unfinished sentence. Long term, most likely a marriage, John seemed the marrying type. Then there was the look on Molly’s face when she had opened the door to them. He had assumed at the time that the shock on her face was down to the fact that _he_ had turned up on her doorstep. That said a lot about his ego. It clouded his judgment from seeing what the expression on her face really said. He could see it now though. She was surprised that he had turned up on her doorstep _with John_.

John didn’t just let people into his life that easily, that was now painstakingly clear to him. Sherlock had known him two days and Sherlock had messed him around already in that time and John had given him a chance and invited him into his circle. This realisation that John had broken down his guarded barriers, invited Sherlock into his closest circle and they had accepted him without question. Thrilled for John that he had finally, finally found someone he might be willing to trust again. Sherlock had never felt so humbled and so fond of anyone in his life. The feeling was consuming and he found that he was beginning to crave it. 

\--

After putting a now very drunk Greg into a cab and kissing Molly, Harry and Clara goodbye, Sherlock found himself walking with John in companionable silence. It was a nice change to be with someone who let him have time with his thoughts. Occasionally their hands brushed past each other as they walked.

“Your sister and Clara… Why aren’t they together?” Sherlock said suddenly. The thought had been bothering him all evening, he was certain he must have missed something.

John looked sideways at him, smiling sadly. “Harry is absolutely besotted with her and so obvious about it. Always has been from the day Clara moved in with me…. But Clara, she’s straight and she’s never seemed interested in Harry that way. She always acts really… platonic with her”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, completely astounded. “John, how could you not see..? If I am sure of one thing it is that Clara is definitely a lesbian. It’s so blatantly, to use your word, obvious that she is extremely attracted to your sister. Her pupils dilate when she looks at her, she leans forward to speak to her as if she’s the only one in the room and frankly she looks down far too often at your sister’s lips for someone with no interest in kissing her. I am deeply concerned if you think that is in anyway platonic...”

“Jesus. Really? You noticed all that after a few hours in their company and we’ve all been missing that for years.” 

“You should tell your sister to ask Clara out on a date. I’ll be astounded if Clara doesn’t jump on the opportunity the second Harry suggests it.”

Sherlock slowed down to a stop, they had been walking for nearly an hour and, without realising it they had wound up outside his hotel. Well… maybe Sherlock hadn’t been completely oblivious to where they were walking. John was clearly still deep in thought about Sherlock’s revelation because he had not noticed that Sherlock had stopped. He walked on a bit, before he looked around to where Sherlock was standing.

“Oh, is this your hotel?”

“Yes. John… I just wanted to say thank you for this evening. I actually had a good time.”

“You sound surprised,” John giggled. 

The sound of John’s laugh filled Sherlock’s heart with warmth. His smile made his eyes crinkle at the side. Sherlock, for the second time in over ten years, was seized with the uncontrollable urge to feel lips move against his, John’s lips. To let John kiss back this time and break down every restraint that Sherlock had put in place for so long. He leaned forward and gently ran his hand up John’s neck and then stroked along his jaw line. John took a miniscule step towards him and then Sherlock couldn’t help himself, not even caring if anyone saw them despite his brother’s warning this morning that every pocket now housed a camera. He grabbed John by the lapels of his jacket and yanked him towards him. Pressing his lips roughly against John’s, a surge of heat rushed through his veins as he heard John moan into his mouth. It was exhilarating; he knew he was awakening the beast that had hibernated within him.

Sherlock broke away; his voice was deep and husky when he said “Do you want to come up?”

“It’s probably not a good idea” John said, panting slightly. 

“No you’re right” Sherlock paused and then added “Do you want to come up?”

“Oh god yes.” 

Sherlock yanked John’s hand and almost ran to the lift in the hotel lobby, pretty sure they had knocked several people flying in their haste. The lift up to the twelfth floor was unbearable, other people had got in with them on the ground floor and the lift was stopping at every floor. They stood there next to each other in the enclosed space, the tension radiating off them so strongly Sherlock was surprised you couldn’t see it in the air around them. It was excruciating, Sherlock felt as if he had a literal itch that he couldn’t wait to scratch. 

Finally, the lift door opened and they walked out the lift before their lips smashed together again and stumbled down the corridor blindly heading towards the hotel room. Sherlock pulled his key out of his pocket frantically and fumbled a bit with the door before managing to open it. He was now sucking gently at John’s neck and trying to kick his shoes off at the same time as they made their way through the door.

He smelled her as soon as he walked through the door to the suite. Her perfume permeated the rooms, rose and jasmine with a hint of spice. She had been there no more than an hour. He pushed John sharply away from him as he heard her walk from the bedroom into the living space of the huge suite, her stilettos clattering on the shiny wooden floor. 

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock spat through his gritted teeth. His body, which had been quivering with arousal, was now shaking with anger and panic. 

Her red lips broke into a devious smile as she said “Can’t a girl just turn up at her boyfriend’s hotel room unannounced anymore?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your lovely comments - so lovely to read nice things about your work.


	5. Greg's Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to move on and Greg has some news.

“John, how about you go for a drink tonight with Greg?” Harry had been hanging out at their flat a lot more the past four weeks. As happy as he had been to finally see his sister and Clara sort themselves out, he had to admit to himself that it was now starting to grate. John had been forced, on more than one occasion, to turn the telly up to almost full volume to drown out the evenings when his sister had been staying over in Clara’s room. He was happy for them, he really was. Despite the fact that it was disgusting on every level to hear his sister having sex, it made him feel lonelier than ever to know that they had each other and he had no one. He would probably be alone for the rest of his life.

“I’m not sure I feel like going out anywhere” John replied moodily. 

“Come on John, this is getting ridiculous now. It’s been over a month now and apart from going to work, you haven’t left the flat or seen anyone. You need to stop thinking about that lanky twat and get yourself out there.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll text Greg.” He had said it to shut her up, but she probably had a point. He couldn’t mope around for the rest of his life. 

*** 

Greg slammed a pint down on the table in front of John, and then sat down opposite him at the table.

“So, how are you doing?” He asked tentatively. 

John forced a smile and shrugged his shoulders. “Getting by you know, keeping myself busy.”

They avoided talking about Sherlock, John could tell Greg was trying to cover every topic except for that one, asking him about the bookshop, whether he had seen the Arsenal game that afternoon and how his leg was doing. 

John tried to keep the conversation upbeat and suggested getting another pint once they had both drained their glasses because the queue for the bar had gone down a bit since they first arrived. Greg turned his head to look over to the bar and over the top of the collar of his shirt John could see a distinctive purple bruise on the side of his neck. 

“Greg. What on _earth_ is that on your neck?

Greg went red and his hand flew up to cover the mark on his throat. “Oh God... well I’ve been seeing someone actually. It’s a relatively recent thing and I haven’t seen you for ages, which is why I haven’t said anything.”

John couldn’t tell why Greg had sounded so defensive - the last thing he knew Greg was still mourning the loss of his marriage. He felt happy for him that he was finally getting some – about bloody time.

“Greg!” John actually started laughing, he hadn’t laughed for so long. It made his cheeks hurt. “Who is she?” 

Greg took a long sip of his beer and then wiped the foam off his upper lip. “It’s a he actually.” 

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realise… who is he?”

Greg, if it were possible, looked even more uncomfortable. “Let me get us another drink first.”

When he came back, pints in hand he took a deep breath before speaking. “To tell you the truth, I’ve been going back and forth about whether I should tell you John. I really don’t want to hurt your feelings in anyway.” John’s face obviously displayed his confusion because Greg pressed on. “His name is Mycroft and he’s… well he’s Sherlock Holmes’ manager.”

John’s face whitened. He couldn’t speak. 

“He’s also Sherlock’s brother.” 

This shocked John into speech. “How the bloody hell have you got involved with” He couldn’t say the name “ _his_ manager? Why would you get involved with anybody associated with that man. His brother? For fuck’s sake Greg” John spat. 

Greg’s head was bowed, he did look guilty. 

“I don’t know what happened… I was walking down the road after work and a car pulled up beside me and told me it would be in my interest to get in. John, I’m a police officer I can’t resist opportunities like that.” John knew the feeling, the scent of danger had always attracted him too, had been the thing that had drawn him to the army. “I was dropped off outside a bar and when I went in it was empty except for this man… Mycroft. He wanted to know how you were getting on, wanted to know if I would accept a payment to keep an eye on you for him.” 

John snorted humourlessly. “So are you telling me not only are you shagging his brother, you are also spying on me?” 

Greg reached out to put his hand on John’s arm. “No, no, John, no. I refused his offer of money and that was it, it really was. Well, he ended up asking me about my job, prying obviously and then before I knew it we had had a few drinks and really got on.” 

John yanked his arm out of Greg’s grip, and picked up the paper placemats and started to rip it into little pieces. 

“I had a really rough shift at work the next day, murder - one of the worst I’ve seen, and I didn’t feel like being alone that night. I texted Mycroft. He refused initially and I was disappointed. But then there was a knock at my door and he was just there…. He presents this front to the world like he’s cold-hearted and emotionless. I seem to be able to make him relax a bit. I have to admit I found it intriguing. Since then, well, it’s just progressed.” 

John sighed deeply, he could feel the anger that had been so close to the surface the last month rising up within him, furious that Greg had betrayed him in this way.

“Greg, you knew what he did to me, he wormed his way into my life and he had a girlfriend. A fucking girlfriend. It’s public knowledge that he has a girlfriend but I’m such an idiot I didn’t even realise. I think about how at Clara’s birthday the rest of you must have been looking at me like a fucking fool. Wondering how I couldn’t know that he was involved with someone else. He made me look like an absolute idiot in front of the only people I care about. He ripped me to pieces in just two days and I am doing my utmost to forget it and you are dragging all this back up again by getting involved with his fucking brother.” 

He didn’t mean to yell it. He didn’t mean for the people sitting nearby to stop their conversations and turn to look at them, stunned. 

“John,” Greg whispered urgently so that the people on the next table couldn’t hear their conversation. “I really didn’t mean to hurt you like this. You are my friend, and if it hurts you that much I can cut things off with Mycroft. You had knew him for two days. I didn’t realise you had felt so strongly about him… I never meant to bring this all up again…”

John suddenly felt ashamed at himself. From what he had heard from Clara, Greg had literally just signed the papers on his messy divorce and had finally found something that made him happy and he had said that he would sacrifice that to stop causing any further hurt to John. He felt selfish and pathetic. Greg was right, he had only known Sherlock for two days. It was just something about him that had drawn him in, made him feel things he hadn't since he had been a newlywed. He knew he should try and be a good friend to Greg. He just couldn’t get past the fact that everyone was happy except for him. He supposed he’d always have Molly to fall back on when he needed a friend. She, like him, seemed to be eternally single. Maybe they'd end up being live-in friends who never had sex and had a bunch of cats. Most marriages turn out like that eventually anyway right? He wasn't missing out on anything. Greg’s phone beeped, he looked down at it and John noticed the small smile that Greg couldn’t hide in time. He straightened his face quickly when he looked up at John. 

“Greg, I don’t want you to stop seeing him. I was just shocked.” John looked down at his watch. “It’s getting late, I might head home.”

Greg looked slightly crestfallen; they hadn’t even touched their second pint. “You’re still angry.”

“I’m not, I’m really not. I am so pleased for you that you have found someone who makes you happy, I just might need some time to get used to the idea of you with his brother. Listen, you’re still in the honeymoon period by the look of it,” John nodded towards Greg’s neck “you should go and find him, make the most of it.” 

To give Greg credit, he did pretend to protest for a little bit before he headed out the pub after giving John a brief one –armed hug. John couldn’t really blame him, if he had a Holmes at home he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to leave the bed for at least a month. Don’t think about that. He drained his beer in a few gulps which probably wasn’t advisable because he hadn’t really eaten that much today. He thought briefly about getting another one, he was feeling quite pleasantly buzzed.

“John?” 

He felt his heart plummet in his chest. He knew that voice, probably better than he knew his own. He looked up to see Mary beaming down at him, her smile making the adorable dimples appear in her cheeks. He used to love those dimples. 

“Mary, hi!” She looked good, he couldn’t deny it. She was wearing a figure hugging green wrap dress and her long wavy blonde hair had grown way past her shoulders; she had always kept it shorter when they were together. The length suited her. She sat down next to him, nudging her leg against his. 

“How are you John? So good to see you!” 

If he could have picked a moment to bump into his ex-wife, it wouldn’t be drinking alone in the pub looking worse for wear and like he hadn’t slept for a month, which he hadn’t. She herself had had a bit too much to drink, she was leaning her head towards him and her eyes were glinting. 

“How’s Toby?” He asked sharply. The last John had heard she was seeing another nurse from the GP surgery where she worked. 

She groaned and shook her head, trying to lighten the mood. “Oh how do you know about that? That’s was over ages ago! Listen-” she put her hand on his thigh “I’m out with some girlfriends tonight, but it would be really nice to catch up over some dinner or something? My number’s still the same – text me.” She kissed him lightly on his cheek and then ran off to her group of friends. 

****  
John woke up feeling relatively fresh the next morning. He had thought a lot of Mary, how much he had cried over her, how much she had hurt him. His heart skipped a bit when he remembered she had asked him to dinner last night and for a moment he had all but forgotten about Sherlock for the first time in a month. The way she had spoken to him made him feel like there was still something between them. Maybe he didn't have to end up alone. He reached over to his phone and saw he had a text from her.

_So lovely to see you last night, you looked really good. I missed you._

He walked down to Speedy’s for a coffee, feeling a little bit more optimistic. Harry had been right, it had been a good idea to go out last night. The day’s newspapers were, as usual, were spread out on the coffee table by the window in the cafe. Normally, he didn’t give them a glance but the name that was plastered over the front of them made his stop in his tracks and wiped Mary from his mind.

 

SLEAZY SHERLOCK HOLMES IN DRUG FUELLED GAY ROMPS 

SHERLOCK HOLMES: DISGRACED STAR'S PAST AS RENT BOY AND DRUG ADDICT

“SHERLOCK HOLMES OFFERED ME SEX IN EXCHANGE FOR DRUGS”


	6. The Actor Who Came To Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that the rating has increased...
> 
> Also trigger warning for abusive relationships, dubcon and drug use.

“John! John! You’ve got a visitor” John’s landlady, Mrs Hudson, was shouting from outside his flat. He thought for a mad second that it would be Mary. She had text him again this afternoon, but he hadn’t replied. 

Begrudgingly, he got up, worried about what he was going to say to her and opened the door to his flat. It wasn’t Mary that was standing next to Mrs Hudson, it was Sherlock. He was even more devastatingly handsome that he remembered even though he was scruffily dressed in tracksuit bottoms and an old t-shirt. His hair looked unwashed and stood up at the back and he was holding a large sports bag over his shoulder.

“John, I’m so sorry to intrude… I just didn’t know where else to go.” His voice sounded soft and sad, none of the edge or bite that it usually had. 

John didn’t think, he nodded at Mrs Hudson and stood back to allow Sherlock to step past him into the flat.

Sherlock dropped his bag on the floor and stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room, he seemed so unlike the man who had once stripped his shirt off in this very room and had kissed John in the hallway. 

“Why don’t you take a seat?” John didn’t know why he was being so polite to him after what he had put him through. Perhaps it was the look of complete helplessness on Sherlock’s usually arrogant looking face. 

Sherlock sat down while John went into the kitchen. He came back out holding two mugs in his hand, handing one over to Sherlock, their fingers brushed briefly as the cup was passed. 

John deliberately sat in his armchair, leaving Sherlock alone on the sofa. 

“Why are you here Sherlock?” John asked suddenly. 

“My hotel has been surrounded by press, they are all camped outside the door. The hotel asked if there was someplace else I could go, the other guests of the hotel had been complaining about it.” 

John said nothing. This morning in Speedy’s when he had seen the papers scattered across the coffee table, he toyed with the idea of reading all the stories but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He didn’t want to ask Sherlock about it, but it was obvious that it had affected him. To be honest, John didn’t want to know, didn’t want to believe that the headlines had been true.

“Couldn’t you have just gone to your girlfriends?” John didn’t mean for it to come out so harshly. The wound was clearly still there.

“About that, John you have to understand-“ Sherlock began but John interrupted. 

“Listen Sherlock, I really don’t want to know about the details of your relationship.”

“No John, please listen to me. Irene may be my girlfriend, but that is by name only. I was having a bit of a lull after my Oscar win in terms of press, lack of job offers, no personal life to speak of and Irene just got into a relationship that she needed to hide from the press. Our publicists hooked up and it was a mutually beneficial arrangement to put it out there that we were in a relationship. Get my name back in the papers and hide the fact that Irene was in a relationship with another woman. Woman, John. I am as much her type as she is mine. I thought it was obvious, particularly to you, that I am very much a gay man.”

“Why was she there then? That night why was she in your hotel room and why did you push me away like that?” 

“I was terrified. This was all so new to me, I didn’t want someone else to be there and ruin what we had. Irene was angry; her publicist had insisted that she fly to London to attend certain publicity events with me. It was her anniversary with her girlfriend and instead of the weekend she had planned she had to spend a weekend with me pretending to be loved up. We both had people we’d rather have been with. If she couldn’t have what she wanted, I couldn’t have what I wanted. Her idea of a fair exchange.”

John leaned back in his armchair. This was so much to take in. 

“Sherlock, listen- there’s a lot I have to get my head round. Let me order us a takeaway-”

“I’m not hungry” interrupted Sherlock.

“I don’t care what you say, you look like shit and you clearly haven’t had a good meal in days. If you are staying until my roof, you obey my rules. Rule number one is that you eat dinner. You go and shower and put some proper clothes on. Then, I will order the food and you will eat it.”

“Okay… Captain Watson.” There was the sudden edge of arrogant humour in Sherlock’s voice again, his eyes regaining a bit of their sparkle. 

***

Once the food had been ordered, John was busying himself in the kitchen, grabbing two wine glasses and pouring a substantial quantity of Sauvignon Blanc into each when he heard Sherlock calling him from the front room.

He walked into the room to find Sherlock sitting cross legged on the floor, hair freshly washed, dressed in his usual suit looking substantially better, with three of the cardboard boxes opened and books scattered around him. He looked up, peering at John with such a quizzical and innocent look on his face that it made John’s heart rate pick up a little bit. He looked utterly adorable. 

“John… do you know what is in these boxes?” 

“Well… most of the books in those are from donations and a couple from my granddad’s collection. They are overflow from the bookshop to be honest. Haven’t had a chance to look at them properly.” 

“Do you have any idea what some of these books are worth?” He looked incredulous at the casualness of John’s tone and yanked his phone out of his pocket to start typing away on it. “John, look – this is a first edition Hobbit! Worth at least £2,000 for that one book alone. And those ones there, are signed Ian Fleming’s. I’ve only been through three of these boxes… who knows what’s in the others.” 

John felt flabbergasted- how on earth did he have those books in his possession? Those boxes had been sat there for ages, gathering dust whilst his bookshop was gradually dropping into more and more debt. This could buy him at least a few months’ rent on the shop… it could, he couldn’t bear to dream it, actually pay off all the loans he had taken out. 

“Listen, I’ve got a contact that could go through these boxes and the books in your shop and give you a really good idea of what you actually have. Please, John, I certainly owe you a favour for letting me stay.”

***

Feeling in a ridiculously good mood, John was sitting on the sofa next to Sherlock, trays on lap and his feet up on the coffee table. He hadn’t felt this relaxed and happy in ages and despite Sherlock scoffing at his wine choice, they were almost at the bottom of the bottle. 

“You’ve actually got quite big feet.” Sherlock remarked. 

“What do you mean actually?” John tried to sound offended, but his smile gave him away. Sherlock chuckled.

“Well statistically for your height and stature your feet should be much smaller. I would say you’re a, what? A size 9 and a half, maybe your left is slightly nearer to a 10. For someone not quite 5 foot 7 that’s considerably out of proportion.” He paused for a second, mischievous grin on his face. “Do you know what they say about men with big feet?” He put his own size 11s up on the coffee table next to John’s, wiggling his bare toes. “Big feet, large… shoes.”

John snorted into his curry, before taking both his tray and Sherlock’s and putting them down on the coffee table. “Well if you play your cards right I might show them to you.” 

They both giggled. John stretched his arms out behind him, for a moment he considered snaking one round Sherlock’s shoulders, but instead he forced a yawn and stood up. 

“Well it’s getting late. You can sleep in my room, I’m happy to kip on the sofa.” 

Sherlock opened his mouth, looking like he was going to object when John said quickly “I’ve tried but beauty sleep unfortunately doesn’t have much effect on me… I look this tired and grumpy wherever I sleep, the bed’s wasted on me. You take it.”

“I get nightmares sometimes” Sherlock admitted, standing up and taking a miniscule step closer to John. “Might help if I have a bit of company.”

John didn’t remember giving it any conscious thought – he had suddenly flung an arm round Sherlock, one hand tangling in his curls to tilt his face down to meet his. He heard Sherlock give a miniscule “oomf” in surprise before opening his mouth to deepen the kiss. They stood there entwined for a couple of minutes, John could feel Sherlock getting hard against him and just the knowledge that he could make aloof, cold, loner Sherlock Holmes lose control against him made heat pool in his stomach and his head feel light as all the blood rushed southwards. 

Breaking the kiss apart, he yanked Sherlock down the corridor towards his bedroom. His fingers were scrambling to undo Sherlock’s shirt buttons, only moving away so that Sherlock could lift his jumper over his head. They both kicked off their trousers so that they were in just pants. Just as they managed to get to his bedroom, John couldn’t help himself and he pressed Sherlock against the door frame, kissing all along his jaw, standing on tip toes to nibble at his ear lobe. He was so incredibly responsive to even the lightest of touches and John had never been more aroused in his life. 

He backed into the room, still wrapped around Sherlock when he felt his legs hit the side of his bed. He made to turn around so that he could throw Sherlock onto the bed, but Sherlock was quicker. Before John had even had a chance to move, Sherlock had pushed him so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his bare feet still on the floor. John saw Sherlock sink to his knees in front of him. Sherlock suddenly leaned back, his eyes on John’s lap and his face looking alarmed. John felt immediately self-conscious. 

“What is it?” He looked down at this crotch, he was straining obscenely against the cotton of his underwear, a small wet patch had blossomed onto the fabric. 

“Sorry” John said feeling embarrassed. Had he misread the situation? No that was ridiculous, he’d felt how hard Sherlock had been. But what if this was another example of Sherlock’s confusing mixed signals. “You don’t have to… you know” he nodded down to his crotch. 

“No it’s not that” Sherlock breathed. “God I want to. It’s just, your underwear, it’s red.” 

John didn’t understand, it wasn’t like Sherlock to state the obvious. Sherlock leaned forward and kissed lightly just above the waistband. 

“Recently” he explained, mumbling against John’s stomach “I was given red pants to wear in a photoshoot. I distinctly remember thinking they looked stupid and unattractive.” His words were punctuated with little kisses as he moved his mouth further down, easing John’s worries slightly. “I severely miscalculated…” Sherlock admitted, parting John’s thighs and scooting forward between them. His lips were now mouthing John’s cock through the cotton. “I hypothesised without all the facts… stupid mistake really. I didn’t take into account how red pants would look on you.” He was practically purring now, his words vibrating deliciously against John. 

John was having a hard time stringing a sentence together, but he managed to stammer out “and how do they look on me?” 

Sherlock's hands were now running lightly through the fair hair on John's thighs. 

"Fucking sexy."

He had never heard Sherlock swear before, something about it caused the animal instinct in John to slide his fingers through Sherlock's hair and push his cock closer to Sherlock's face. 

"John, I should warn you, I haven't done this for a very long time. I'm afraid I'm rather out of practice." 

"Well as you know, I've never done this... well I have done this before... just never with a man."

"Best make it worth your while then."

Sherlock pushed John's pants down before taking John in one hand and licking a stripe up the length of him, swirling his tongue around the top and then finally, finally taking him in his mouth.

"Oh god" John sighed above him, his hands still loosely in Sherlock's hair. The feeling of the warm wet heat of Sherlock's mouth, of his tongue licking at his frenulum, His big hand wrapped around the base moving up and down in time with his mouth was driving John mad. Sherlock was humming around him, and when he felt himself hit the back of Sherlock's throat he couldn't stop himself from swearing out loud. It had been so long since he had been touched with anything other than his own hand, he had forgotten how good it felt. John opened his eyes to find Sherlock looking up at him through his eyelashes, pupils blown wide open. Looking past his face John could see that Sherlock's hand that wasn't wrapped around John had bought his own cock out of his pants and was moving furiously on himself. In his marriage, John always suspected that whenever his wife had done this to him it had been more of a chore, she’d do it to get him off but never because she actually enjoyed it. Yet here Sherlock was so aroused by having John's dick in his mouth that he was stroking himself off at the same time. The sight was suddenly too much. He didn't want to be embarrassed by how quickly this would end and before he had even had a chance to touch Sherlock.

"You have to stop" John laughed weakly, his breathing heavy. 

Sherlock pulled off and looked up inquisitively. His lips were wet with saliva. 

"I don't want to come like this, it's too one-sided and impersonal." 

Sherlock looked suddenly uncomfortable and confused. 

"Come up here, let's take this slowly. I certainly need a moment to calm down after that." John helped Sherlock up onto the bed and they lay next to each other, leg entwined and kissing tenderly. 

"Is this ok?" John asked as reached down to Sherlock's underwear, when Sherlock nodded he pulled them down and Sherlock kicked them off. John moved his hand between them and took them both in his spit slicked fist. This was new, having another man hard and smooth pressed up against him- it felt ridiculously good. Sherlock groaned and thrust up into John's hand as John picked up the pace, his were eyes closed, his black curls wild, a few strands stuck to his sweaty forehead - in that moment of complete lack of control, John thought he had never seen him look more beautiful. With his spare hand, John grabbed hold of Sherlock's hand and held it tightly. Their lips met again, not really kissing, just breathing heavily into each other's mouths. John slowed his hand down, adding a twist of his wrist as he reached the heads of their cocks- he has always liked it like that. John felt Sherlock suddenly tense and shudder before he spilt over John's hand. Sherlock rolled onto his back, while John used Sherlock's come as lube to finish himself off. It only took John a couple more strokes before he orgasmed too, making his vision go white and his body shake. Once he had come back to himself he picked up the discarded red pants and wiped down his hand and both of their stomachs. 

"That's a shame I like those pants." Sherlock mumbled. 

"They can be washed" John chuckled as he wrapped Sherlock up in a cuddle and they lay there together. Sherlock eventually got up and went to the bathroom, and John took the opportunity to pull back the covers and climb under the duvet. He thought he might have been too presumptuous to assume they would be sleeping in the same bed together after what had just happened because Sherlock just stood next to the bed for a while before eventually climbing in next to him. John kissed him lightly on the lips and was just drifting off to sleep when he heard Sherlock whisper into the darkness.

"I believe I owe you an explanation.” 

John opened his eyes, but didn’t move or speak, choosing to let Sherlock speak uninterrupted. 

“When I was at university, I spent a lot of time alone. I didn't know what it was, but I somehow didn't fit in. Then there was this boy... Jim, I met him on my drama course. He was charming and handsome and talented. I was intrigued by him. I was rehearsing a duologue with him that we were going to be performing and he had me captivated like no other actor had ever done so previously, or since. I thought I was in love with him and when he propositioned me one night I gave myself to him freely. I was a virgin, I didn't know what I was doing and it hurt like hell. I tensed up, feeling so ashamed of myself that I was letting him down. He told me I needed to relax and produced his stash of heroin, said it would calm me down. I was so desperate to please him I just went with it, let him prepare it for me to inject. I knew about heroin, I knew Jim was a user... I have to admit I'd been intrigued before, thought it would quiet my mind and here was the perfect opportunity. It became a pattern, every time we had sex, I'd shoot up first. It wasn't long before I had become addicted, both to Jim and the drug. Jim wanted sex, I couldn't have sex with him unless I was relaxed, I needed the drugs to relax. Ironically, once the heroin had taken effect it made me so uninterested in sex but would make me compliant and passive and Jim got off on that. He didn't really seem to mind that I never got much out of it, or if I was half asleep. Sometimes I was so out of it, the only proof I had that we had had sex would be the soreness I felt the next day, Jim was not exactly gentle and loving." He laughed humourlessly. "I had no money- I ended up offering myself up for the drugs... sexual favours here and there to get my hands on it. I'm not proud of it. Jim eventually realised this was an opportunity he could take advantage of. Offer me up to exchange for drugs, sell the drugs on. Perfect business deal. It went on for months... Mycroft eventually found me, passed out naked in an alley one evening and enough was enough. He took me to an std clinic - safe sex wasn't always my priority- then when my results came back clean, he checked me into a rehab facility and I managed to get off the drugs. I'd be lying if I said I'd never been tempted since, sometimes I feel so alone, my mind buzzing, racing and I crave the quietness that comes with a hit. But I have never followed through with it. I moved to New York pretty soon after I came out of the facility and didn't see Jim for years."

Sherlock was quiet for a long time. Perhaps it was easier for him to say all this into the blackness. John wondered if he had ever said this all out loud before. He wanted to hug him close, make him feel the affection and the safety that came with what a proper relationship should be.

"I try and maintain a safe distance from humanity. I draw away, never letting anyone in or close to me. I couldn't risk it. I developed a way to observe human behaviour and replicate it in my acting. I haven't ever really felt like the character I'm playing- I've never empathised, I can't bring myself to feel things too keenly. I’ve become really good at mimicking it. I can tell so much about a person from the smallest movements, my observations have got so accurate. You, for example, I could read military in the way you stood and held yourself. Your leg injury, clearly psychosomatic, you stood at the bookshelf for ages pondering books without even thinking about your leg. Psychosomatic implies you were injured under traumatic circumstances. Military man. There obviously must have been a real injury, because you are too young to retire so I assumed you had been invalidated out. The only thing I couldn't tell was whether you had been invalidated from Afghanistan or Iraq. The front I present to the public - it keeps me distant. I've proved already that when I fall in love I do it without any consideration for my self-preservation. It’s dangerous for me. But sex was always a means to an end and a way to show Jim that I loved him. I never enjoyed it, it's something I've avoided since then, I didn't see the point...I don't know why you are different. Sharing a bed, you saying that you wanted it not to be one-sided. You have to understand that is alien to me, I've never been in a scenario where the person I was with wanted me to enjoy it, cared just as much or more about that than their own pleasure. I knew Jim would be biding his time, waiting to make an impact with his story. He's the jealous type, he wants to be the only person to ever impact me that way. He gets a sense of ownership when it comes to me. I saw him recently, accidentally bumped into him at a party- he's still in the industry though hasn't quite broken through yet - I could tell that he knew I was pining over someone. He wanted to send a message to me that he still holds all the power over me. That he can make and break me in a matter of hours, if I don't want him then I can't have anyone. I know it was him that sold the stories to the papers. Only he has the photographic evidence that they published…. John, I understand if after everything I've told you if you never want to see me again. I'm repulsed by myself, so I can't expect you to feel any differently." 

John rolled over and wrapped his arms around Sherlock and placing Sherlock's head on his chest. From this angle, he could place soft kisses into Sherlock's curls. 

"Sherlock, I will never not want you." 

***

John woke suddenly the next morning. He could tell by Sherlock’s tone of voice something was wrong.

"Did you tell them?" 

"What?" John said, confused and still half asleep. "Tell who?"

"John I just opened the curtains in your living room in nothing but a sheet. There are over 100 paparazzi outside your front door. I doubt they are there to take photos of your landlady. How did they know I was here? Your sister and roommate aren't here, they couldn't have told anyone. Your landlady clearly didn't know who I was when she let me in yesterday. The only logical conclusion is that you let the press know where I was." Sherlock snarled. 

"I - what?" 

John got up and walked over to the window in the front room to look down onto the street. The road outside was nearly blocked off with people, all of them with cameras pressed to their faces. Sherlock re-emerged from John’s room in jeans and a shirt.

"I can't believe I let myself trust you. This is why I distance myself. Mycroft was right- Alone protects me."

John didn't know what to say. He stood there speechless as Sherlock ran around the flat picking up his strewn clothes off the floor and shoving them into his backpack, texting on his mobile.

"You're overreacting. Come on Sherlock I didn't call them. What does it matter if they've seen you? Just calm down, can’t we just have a laugh about all this?" John said as Sherlock sat down on the sofa to put his shoes on. He looked up and glared at John.

"You don't understand do you? I worked so hard to build up a reputation. A day after stories of me sleeping around with men, of me selling myself, come out and then I'm photographed in a man's house naked in a sheet? Does your idiotic brain not understand what that looks like? Every time someone googles me this story will come up. On the internet those stories last forever. I will regret this forever." 

John felt his heart plummet. He wanted to be sick. How could his perfect day yesterday turn so terribly wrong?

"I will do the opposite if that's ok by you and I'll always be glad that you came to stay." 

Sherlock pushed past him, bag slung over his shoulder and slammed the door behind him. John was still by the window and he saw as Sherlock made his way onto the street, pushing through all the press and into the waiting back Sudan across the street.

**Author's Note:**

> Complete novice at writing, never done it before so apologies for any of the clumsiness. Hoping this is going to be one of those things you get better at the more you do! Really do appreciate any feedback or constructive criticism. 
> 
> Thanks a bunch - next chapter is already in the making.


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